Category Archives: POETRY

AMUSED

Men say there are nine muses

all female,

all source,

all inspiration

behind man’s creation.

I alone amuse myself, 

a female 

well enough,

tough enough

wise enough

behind my own creation.

We females are funny that way.

We have no time

to while away,

nor our egos sway,

where power games lay.

We do not play.

We females amuse ourselves

as we go on life’s way

to build lives better,

to make peace surer,

to allay furor

which gets in the way.

We find joy in  every day.

We bring joy

to every girl and boy,

to every woman and man,

to all we can,

smiling all the way.

Men may need nine muses.

Women are happy to be

all  nine at every time,

in every way,

on every day.

We women do not play.

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LATE SUMMER DAZE

LATE SUMMER, acrylic on canvass by Louise Annarino, 2024

The shades of summer pull slowly closed.

Sun drops quietly behind.

Shadows lengthen across grass carpets

moistened by the dew of cool nights

and warm days peaking through.

Autumn is on her way to paint

hot colors against cool blue skies.

Summer still lingers behind the shade

ready to surprise 

with summer heat intent

on a hot reprise.

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GIVE US AIR !


Vice-President Kamala Harris and Minnesota Governor Tim Walz

August flopped heavily

Sweatily

Vociferously

and fully aware of the pressure

building in the heated

air.

Little relief in scattered 

rains that shattered

a populace already battered

by heated rhetoric

over the curtained waves of

air.

Two-thousand twenty-five

reasons to despair

the planned assault on our care

of one another and a planet

dumb-soaked without a care for

air. 

August is hard to breathe in,

in and out, and in again;

cheering on Harris-Walz

awaiting the slightest breeze of

air.

I can breathe again.

We can breathe again.

The earth can breathe again.

Finally, we can move forward again.

In November we can vote in cooled

air.

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WORDS AS FRIENDS

Photo by Monstera Production on Pexels.com

Treating words like friends

poetry does not create. 

Words can ask that you wait.

Like friends.

Words can obfuscate.

Like friends.

Words can stimulate.

Like friends.

Words can love or hate mandate.

Like friends.

Words can fear understate.

Like friends.

Words can hunger sate.

Like friends.

Words can placate.

Like friends.

Words can ease your fate.

Like friends.

Words can simply be great.

Like friends.

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GARDEN LESSON

Photo by Richa Sharma on Pexels.com

There is nothing like a drought

to teach what life is all about.

Waiting for the rain to fall

is not sufficient to survive.

Tender patience does not thrive.

Buds remain closed, tucked and hidden

deep among leaves’ folds

offering a pace to hide.

Roots buckle down deep

and down, down, down

to depths they seldom explore;

knowing once the rains do come

they may open up closed doors.

Eventually, rains come, and even pour.

Rains batter plants stressed and sore;

opening caches held within their core.

It is only after sun appears

that plants let go their fears.

And in that moment plants flower,

Their faith in Nature restored.

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WHERE HAVE THE BUTTERFLIES GONE?

Photo by Nandhu Kumar on Pexels.com

Hydrangeas move as if on a breeze.

A breeze of bees moving flower to flower

across lime green, blue and pink.

Across ruby red and native plants

their flowers do a pretty dance.

On this hot, dry day I watch bees play.

But, where have the butterflies gone?

They did not appear this year.

The yard is awash in colorful blooms

In past years butterflies found plenty of room

to feast and sleep a moment or two.

Butterfly bushes and  butterfly weeds,

native plants and other species

await their return in sad revery.

I ask everyone I know,

“have you seen a butterfly this year?”

The answer is always a baffled, “No.”

Where did all the butterflies go?

And, will they ever return ?

Who knows? Like lovers spurned,

they may have found another garden

to replace my own. 

I can only hope so, as I mourn

a topsy-survey world grown too warm.

Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels.com

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GODDESSES AMONG US

I see now why the first deities were female.

Only a woman speaks to the soul of  birth

and breathes new life into 

every soul on this beloved earth.

Goddesses with distended wombs

weighted with hopefulness

are found in every ancient tomb.

Our future had seemed lost.

The entire world seemed doomed.

Death in every household loomed.

A globe on fire steeped in hateful rhetoric

gunned down every effort to escape 

a despondent, hopeless fate.

Covid stole the innocence

of even those usually sitting on the fence.

No one was content to wait and see

what November wrought for democracy.

Moneyed oligarchs of greed stole hope 

as well control over justice with abuse of power.

Federalist  Society Judges delayed justice

hour after hour after hour after hour.

Even the Supreme Court undermined

the Constitution which is yours and mine;

not theirs, not wealthy donors, not those in power.

Then she, she, she, she, she, she, she

took the torch and raised it high.

Emma Lazarus’ female guards our harbor.

Kamala guards us in our darkest hour.

Her smile and laughter brings us

up from our knees, our prayers answered.

A goddess has arisen and made a fuss

of all the lies and hate-filled derision.

Her solemn promise made to us

that she will fight at our side.

She will tan the evil-doers hide

as mothers have always done,

chastising our sins one-by-one.

And so we rise with delighted surprise

to shout as one that we are not done,

and we are not going back where death resides.

We are going forward where life begins.

To a place where elections are open to all.

To a place where life is treasured not spent

on greed and control and all that is indecent.

We are headed to the polls to give our consent

to a mother goddess from heaven’s descent;

called by Joe’s prayers, who always seems to know

what we need and whom to follow.

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Filed under POETRY, POLITICS

WAKE UP THE YOUNG

Photo by Mark Angelo Sampan on Pexels.com

The older I get

the harder it becomes to

carry heavy hearts.

Young hearts are heavy

these days of heatwaves, flooding

and fires of war.

My own heart has slowed,

unable to speed or race,

beating a steady pace.

The young run shouting,

fueled by alcohol and fun,

circling around me.

I try to tell them,

straighten your path toward the goal,

a race to be won.

I shout from the sidelines

loss of freedom is gaining

on you, as you play.

Age carries no weight.

My words tossed away as trash,

as victory fades fast.

Woke becomes useless

for the young who sleep too late.

Please, now, come awake!

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PAVED ROADS

Station Road rebuilding 2 by Jonathan Wilkins is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

The road to success is paved with cash.

Numbers add up with each step.

Roads are blown to dust

when there is no money to keep them up.

Campaigns are long roads in America.

The longer the road, the higher the cost.

Those who run races along America’s roadways

are not so fleet-footed as they appear.

Their feet often slide on cash piled too high.

Their feet often slow on cash piled too low.

Whenever you wonder “why”, follow the money,

its ebb and flow, its surrogate paths

to hide those in the know.

Senators and Congressmen cannot always follow

the path of a lead runner when the cash is low.

They find new paths where money will cushion

a challenging and uphill election or re-election.

Still wondering “why?” And who decides?

Ask the right questions. Swallow your pride.

Then you will know. You are along for a ride.

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POLITICAL PARTIES

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Notes do not always ascend

in a crescendo of delight

They also bend low 

beyond the heart’s swift beat

until we feel breath stop

fearing heart’s defeat.

Notes ebb and flow

in patterns we do not anticipate.

Yet the music goes on

in beauteous escapade

across unlit rooms,

across shady glens, 

across sunlit fields

and parking lots awash

in un-natural lights aglow

above harsh surfaces of worry

where we park to listen.

Music soothes as often as it pushes

heart rates into overdrive.

We rise on dancing feet

or subside to slumberous ease.

One orchestra makes sense

of the notes unfolding

up and down,

racing and slowing

until the music transcends

the past and brings us up fast

to the climax at the end.

Two orchestras cannot play together

unless they play the same notes

at the same pace to the same place

in time and space.

Each must follow the same rules

and read the same music sheet.

Without such agreement

there is a cacophony of sound.

No matter how well one orchestra 

plays by the rules, its uplifting

music becomes mere sound,

its rhythm unable to be discerned

by the racket from the second

orchestra who has turned

from reading the music sheet

and playing by the rules.

We cannot stand the dissonance

and turn the music off.

We mistakenly believe

both orchestras at fault.

It is time to call a halt

to the orchestra of whining instruments

which refuse to abide by music’s rules

and continue to play us false.

I yearn for the sweet sounds of truth.

November cannot come too soon.

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